


Cockblock Tentacle

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bottom Jack, Cockblocking, Crack, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Flirting, Jealousy, Lovers' Squabble, M/M, Misunderstandings, Neglect, Pets, irresponsible animal care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-17 00:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Jack brings a stray puppy home. Brock has no say; the puppy stays, so he gets his own pet. Jack is not thrilled.Or: the one in which Jack tries to draw Brock's attention in worst ways possible.





	Cockblock Tentacle

**Author's Note:**

> This one joins [Cockblock Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14197371/chapters/32727021) in my (not so) newly created Cockblock Series.
> 
> Written for a "slammed into a wall" prompt on [my Bad Things Happen bingo card](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/177348030590/here-is-your-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo#notes). It says “Bad Things Happen” but being slammed into a wall is the best thing that happens to Jack in this fic.

Brock stretched, yawned, and turned off the TV. He looked at the clock hanging above the entrance to the living room; Jack was running late. Brock had driven straight home after work, but Jack liked to hit the gym for a couple of hours first to clear his head. Brock was just debating calling him when he heard the lock turn. The front door opened and in walked his boyfriend, head down and shoulders hunched under his black leather jacket.

"Dinner's in the oven," Brock called out, discreetly turning the TV back on, not wanting to make it look like waiting around for Jack to come home was all he was doing.

But Jack didn't spare him a glance as he grunted in acknowledgement and crossed the corridor towards the kitchen. Only then Brock noticed that his hand was tucked under the jacket and holding a small lump close to his chest. Brock frowned when the lump moved. It was more than suspicious, so he followed Jack to the kitchen.

Jack was standing in front of the open fridge when Brock walked in, hiding a little piece of a frankfurter inside his jacket. The lump _whimpered._

"Jack," Brock said sternly.

Jack turned to look at him with a guilty expression. Brock reached out with his lips pursed. Jack rolled his eyes and pulled the lump out of his inside pocket. Black beady eyes looked up at Brock, tiny teeth snapping with a high-pitched woof.

"What is this?" Brock demanded.

"A puppy," Jack answered with his eyebrows raised like it was obvious.

Well, _of course_ it was obvious. Only Brock wasn't asking about what Jack was holding, but what the fuck he thought he was doing.

"I see it's a fucking puppy. Where did you get it from?"

"The street, where else? He was lost and hungry. Look." Jack pushed the puppy into Brock's face. It whined. "Look at his pleading eyes."

Brock looked at Jack's pleading eyes and let his shoulders slump. "Fine, you can feed it, but then it goes back out."

"It's raining," Jack said it like it was a debating point, which it wasn't. It wasn't even true; Brock could very clearly see that it wasn't raining through the window behind Jack.

"We can't have a dog, Jack, how do you imagine that? With our lifestyles? What if I’m gone on a business trip and you have to work late, what then?"

It was all true, but the main reason for Brock's annoyance was he just didn't _want_ a dog. As simple as that.

"We can always ask our new neighbor to dogsit."

Brock was protesting before he even knew it, blood in his veins boiling at the mention of their neighbor— _Steve_ was his name, his mind reminded him in Jack's voice. He heard the name fall from Jack's lips more often than he liked, _Steve_ dropped casually in their conversations always making his chest burn.

"No. You can feed it and pet it all you want tonight, but then it's going outside. It's my last word."

"No," Jack said simply, and that was it. The puppy stayed.

Brock was infinitely annoyed by the fact he had no say in who or what could live in his home, and that it was a dog of all things. He didn't like dogs. They were filthy and loud and irritating. Moreover, Jack called his—not theirs, never theirs—Nemo, a human name, though Brock was convinced it was actually after that stupid fish. No matter what made him choose it, it was an absurd name. Brock thought Piss Factory was much more fitting.

Because that was what the puppy was. During the last week, Brock stepped in so many pee puddles it was ridiculous, only no one was laughing—well, maybe Jack if he was there to witness it. Usually he wasn't, because suddenly he had errands to run early in the morning or a job to do in the evening, and of course it was Brock who had to take the puppy out for a walk so it could piss and shit on a lawn instead of Brock's floor. Usually the puppy had already peed on the floor before Brock took it, and he uselessly stood in the rain for ten minutes before he realized all it was interested in was chasing raindrops.

Brock told Jack that if he wanted a goddamn dog so much, then he better taught it not to pee inside and started walking it. But a week passed and nothing changed until Brock's business dinner.

Brock was telling himself he wasn't getting back at Jack when he came home with a lump inside his windbreaker, but that was exactly what he was doing. Jack watched him walk inside the kitchen with his eyes narrowed from the living room where he had been typing something on his laptop. He opened the fridge and grabbed a piece of raw fish that was supposed to be for dinner. He heard footsteps just when he was tucking the fish under the windbreaker.

"Whatever it is, you should give it smaller pieces," Jack said.

Brock turned around to face him. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes shifting from Brock's face to the mysterious lump and back. Brock could say he was a little on edge from how tense his shoulders were.

"It doesn't need smaller pieces," he replied.

Jack took a deep breath. "If it's a kitten—" he trailed off, going a little pale in the face as his eyes tracked a long dark pink tentacle creeping up Brock's neck. Then he looked Brock in the eyes with a frown. "Brock."

Brock sighed dramatically and uncovered an octopus from under his windbreaker, its tentacles wrapping around his forearms. Jack stared at it, dumbfounded, disbelieving that this was what Brock brought home.

"Brock," Jack repeated, "did you just fucking steal an octopus?"

"I rescued him," Brock corrected.

"Where from, a sewer?" Jack gave him a be-serious look. They both knew no one just found an octopus on the street.

"That sushi place I went to."

"Did anyone see you do it?"

"Who do you have me for?" Brock asked with resentment.

Jack took a deep breath, partially placated that they weren't in an immediate danger of being arrested. "Alright. Okay. Now you return it and possibly do it just as discreetly as you stole it."

"Are you out of your mind? They were gonna kill him, cook him and eat him! I'm not returning him."

Jack bared his teeth in a sneer. "If it was a sushi place, then they wouldn't cook it. They probably wouldn't even kill it."

Brock moved the octopus closer to his chest. Its tentacles wrapped around his shoulders in a caricature of an embrace.

"He stays," he decided.

He pushed the piece of fish he was still holding close to its mouth and they watched it devour it. Then Jack looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.

"I know you're mad because of Nemo, but this is an entirely different thing. Don't be a fucking baby. We can't keep a goddamn octopus. Where do you even wanna put it?"

"In the bathtub," Brock replied easily as if he had given it a lot of thought.

"Brilliant! Wonderful idea, Brock, but it begs another question: where the fuck am I supposed to bathe then?" Suddenly, Jack’s lips stretched in a nasty smile. "Perhaps you want me to go to our new handsome neighbor with a tray full of pie and ask him nicely if I can use his shower? He wouldn't say no, you know? He's kind like that."

Brock felt a sudden urge to throw something at him; as it was, the octopus kept his hands busy, so he restrained himself. It was the first time Jack referred to their neighbor as 'handsome'. He was aware he did it to rile him up, but... well, it was true.

"No," he snarled, his neck burning in anger. "You can shower in the gym."

He strode to the bathroom, unstuck the octopus from himself, put it in the bathtub and opened the tap. The octopus kept trying to climb the tub wall, and he had to keep pushing its tentacles off the edge. Jack was watching this from the doorway—Brock wasn't facing him, but he could sense waves of unhappiness rolling off him—until they heard a pitter-patter of four tiny paws across the floor and a whimper.

"I'm taking Nemo out," Jack said and walked away towards the hall.

 

*

 

Brock was still half-asleep when he rolled off the bed early in the morning and got dressed, but something soaking his sock on his way to the kitchen successfully woke him up.

"Jack!" he yelled, not caring that his boyfriend was still in bed. "If I step in piss one more time, I'm kicking the dog out!"

He stood in the passageway for a moment, waiting for an answer. He was about to continue walking, the wet sock still on, when Jack showed up in the bedroom entrance, hair disheveled and eyes puffy from sleep.

"You sure that's piss?"

"What else could that be, jackass?"

"You're aware octopuses need entertainment or they get bored, right? Not much to do in that bathtub. It surely went out for a little trip around the apartment."

Brock pulled off his sock and, holding it with two fingers, walked over to Jack. "Sniff it."

Jack swatted his hand away. "I'm not sniffing your sock."

Brock raised his eyebrow. "It's either your dog's piss or water, what are you afraid of?"

"The smell of your feet."

Rolling his eyes, Brock opened the bathroom door and turned on the lights. They carefully walked over to the tub. The octopus was innocently sitting on the bottom, taking all the space available with its long curled tentacles.

Brock threw the sock at Jack. "One more time," he warned and pushed past him to finally make himself coffee.

Jack followed him. "Do you have to go?" he asked, sitting down at the table. He yawned, covering his mouth.

Brock glanced at him over his shoulder. "Do I _have to_ go to a business meeting?"

"But it's Saturday," Jack grumbled.

Brock shrugged. "But you like to have money to blow on all those useless knick-knacks, don't you?" He took a coffee jar out of the cupboard. "Do you want coffee?"

He turned around when Jack didn't answer. Jack was watching him, his gaze a little distant. Finally, he shook his head.

"No, I'm going back to bed."

But he kept Brock company at the table as he drank his coffee, ate a plain toast and responded to texts. Nemo woke up soon after and started jumping at their legs, demanding either food or a walk, Brock didn't know and didn't care.

"One more time," Brock warned Jack again before leaving.

 

*

 

It was afternoon already when he came back home, tired and sweaty in the formal outfit, his numb mind demanding rest.

"I'm home," he announced.

Jack didn't answer, but Brock could hear him potter around in the kitchen. He took off his shoes and his dress jacket, undid a button under his neck and went to the living room. He turned on the TV and skipped channels for a moment until he found one that interested him. He made himself comfortable on the couch, and watched a movie for a minute before he decided a beer would have been nice, so he got up again to grab a bottle from a fridge.

He went to the kitchen and stopped in his tracks at the sight of Jack pouring milk into a bowl of thick batter. He smiled to himself. Jack hated cooking and before moving in with Brock he had been mainly surviving on takeout, but baking was a different story. He would bake something every other weekend. Brock liked to watch him work and to eat his baking even more.

"What's baking?" he asked, approaching him. He waited for him to stop stirring the batter to put his finger in it.

"Oi." Jack slapped his hand away. "A white cake."

Brock licked his finger clean; he always liked the taste of raw cake batter. Then he rested his head against Jack's shoulder, hindering his attempts at pouring the batter into a floured pan. "Mmm, what did I do to deserve it?"

He put his fingers under the stream of pouring batter and Jack shoved him away with a tut.

"Did you wash your hands?"

Brock shrugged. "The heat's gonna kill all the bacteria, anyway."

Jack glared at him. "See, I wanted to leave you a piece, but no, you don't deserve any of it."

Brock raised his eyebrow. "Do you expect me to just ignore it whenever I open the fridge?"

"It's not for us, dumbass." Jack grabbed the pan and turned around to put it in the oven. "It's for Steve."

For a second, Brock thought he heard wrong. "What?"

Jack set the timer for thirty-five minutes and turned to face him. "Can't just come bare-handed when I ask him to use his shower, can I?"

Brock gaped at him until he got his voice back. "Seriously?"

"You don't expect me to bathe with that thing, do you?" Jack snarled.

"Can't you go the gym, then? Jesus." Brock went back to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

"Don't make me laugh, I won't go to the gym just to take a shower."

Brock didn't know what else he could say to that, so he twisted the cap off, threw it into the trash and went back to the living room. He sat down and glued his eyes to the TV, but he couldn't focus. He missed the first ten minutes of the movie, anyway.

Steve wasn't Brock's only neighbor. Jack could have made friends with Mr. Ross from the next room, or Mrs. Irwin below, but no. It had to be a handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, well-built man in his twenties. He wasn't even the plain casual handsome type; he looked like one of those sculptures made by Ancient artists. Everything about him seemed perfect. Brock snorted to himself; maybe he had a small prick, too.

It wasn't that Brock looked ugly; he knew he didn't. Many men his age wished they looked that good. Brock scowled to himself between the sips of his beer; that was the issue. He was—well, he was old. He could be the most handsome forty-something man in the world, but he still had wrinkles where Steve was smooth, he had old man knees, his back ached quite often, and he was becoming less disciplined, giving in to exhaustion. He rested his hand on his stomach; he’d put on a couple of pounds recently. He liked to blame it on Jack's baking, beer and worsened metabolism, but the truth was he let himself get lazy. He couldn't quite remember when was the last time he went to the gym, but it was certainly before his recent promotion to the CEO.

He heard footsteps in the passage and he watched Jack sit down on the carpeted floor to play with Nemo. He wasn't pretty in the same way Steve was—the word baby-faced wouldn't be quite inaccurate when it came to their neighbor—but he was the most perfect boyfriend Brock could have had, tall with a muscular body that made his mouth water, and young. Way younger than Brock. Guys his age didn't usually have partners that young unless they were wealthy. Brock had enough money to lead a comfortable life, but nothing to write home about. Jack liked to needle him about his age, call him a grandpa and weak, but he also called him beautiful, and Brock could see in his eyes that he meant it whenever he looked at Brock like he was admiring a breathtaking work of art. It made Brock less concerned about his age, at least until Steve moved in to the room above and Jack decided to greet him with cherry pie. They had gone together and Brock somehow ended up introducing himself as Jack's _husband_ despite the fact they never even talked about getting married.

Nemo rolled onto his back for Jack to tickle his stomach, and his happy high-pitched barks made Brock's head ache.

"Do something about that dog," he snapped, shifting his focus back to the TV. "Or I'll buy it a fucking muzzle."

"Thank God your octopus is quiet," Jack retorted. He grabbed the tiny puppy with one hand and got up. "Who the fuck keeps a fucking octopus in their fucking bathtub..." he grumbled to himself on his way to the bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him.

Brock was going through his second beer when the timer went off and Jack returned to the kitchen; he was dozing off on the couch when he heard the front door shut. He yawned, wiped his eyes, stretched until his back popped and slowly got up. He gathered the two empty bottles and walked into the kitchen. The cake was gone, the kitchen counter dirty with flour, batter and frosting. Brock sighed and threw the bottles away. Jack hated cleaning even more than he did cooking.

Brock scrubbed the counters and washed the dishes, and he was getting started on dinner when he started getting anxious. He looked up from cutting an onion as if he could peer through the ceiling at what was going on in the apartment above. He checked the time on the oven clock; Jack left not ten minutes ago, and he would usually shower up to twenty. There was no reason for Brock to freak out even if the situation bothered him to no end.

Jack was still gone when the potatoes were done cooking. Brock mashed them with more force than was necessary, gritting his teeth, and when they were paste, he threw the masher into the sink with a loud bang. He strode out to the stairwell, not having bothered to put on shoes, and, wiping his damp hands on his pants, he climbed the stairs up to Steve's apartment. He tried to collect himself before knocking so he wouldn't seem unhinged.

Steve opened the door, smiling, smelling of a nice cologne. His hair was carefully done, and he was wearing a tight gray t-shirt that somehow wasn't ripping with every breath he took. Brock did a quick assessment of himself: dress pants with wet hand prints on them, a sweaty button-up shirt, beer breath, hair probably disheveled from dozing on the couch. It was all he could do not to scowl.  

"Hey, I came to collect," _my husband,_ he didn't say, "Jack."

At the sound of his name—or maybe Brock's voice—Jack entered the hall, and Brock felt his throat burn at the sight of him shirtless, toweling the tips of his hair. At least he had pants on.

"Dinner's ready," he said through gritted teeth.

Jack nodded and stepped out into the corridor, brushing against Steve on his way. "Thanks for letting me use your shower again."

"Thanks for the cake," Steve replied, smiling way too sweetly in Brock's opinion, "and hey, feel free to drop by whenever you have something occupying your bathtub. Or when you bake something and, you know, wanna share."

Jack returned the smile. "I definitely will."

Brock's hands curled into fists, his a bit too long nails digging painfully into the flesh of his palms.

_Were they fucking flirting?_

"Hurry up," Brock barked, already on his way to the stairs. "Unless you like your dinner cold."

He listened to them say their goodbyes in gentle voices and then the door close. Jack followed him down the stairs, and as soon as they walked inside their apartment, Brock grabbed his wrist, making him drop the towel he was holding, twisted his arm behind his back and slammed him chest-first into the wall.

"The fuck was that?" he growled into his ear. "You need a fucking reminder who you fucking belong to?"

Jack's breath hitched. He didn't respond, but he didn't have to; Brock knew he needed more encouragement to admit what he wanted. His silence and stillness were enough for an answer.

"I reckon you weren't properly fucked in a while, huh?"

All made sense now: the puppy, calling Steve handsome and showering at his place, baking him a cake and flirting with him—all of that were just Jack's attempts at drawing Brock's attention to himself. Brock had been busy and constantly tired since his promotion, up for maybe a little groping and not much more. He could see how Jack could feel neglected.

He let go of him. "Go to the bedroom and get yourself ready."

Jack didn't exactly sprint, but he walked to the bedroom in a fast pace, and Brock caught him undoing his pants before the door closed behind him. Seeing his favorite owner back, Nemo perked up from the folded blanket in the passage he was using as a bed and run to the bedroom door, barking and almost tripping over himself. Brock grabbed him and locked him in the kitchen; a puppy jumping around their bed as they fucked was the last thing they needed. He only hoped Nemo wouldn't somehow eat all their beef that was going cold on the pan.

He went to the bathroom next. Bob the octopus was floating in the bathtub along with a couple shower gel bottles. Apparently he took them from the shelf above to play with them. Brock smiled, proud that Bob was smart and self-contained enough to take care of his own entertainment. He stripped from his ripe clothes, washed himself at the sink quickly, and fixed his hair a little before finally following Jack to the bedroom.

All his blood flowed downwards at the sight of Jack spread out on his chest with his ass up in the air and fingers buried inside. Jesus, why did they ever stop fucking, again? He walked around the bed and crouched in front of Jack's face resting on the pillow. There was a faint blush in his cheeks, and his eyes were a little glazed over already. Brock reached out to pet his hair. He needed to make sure Jack was okay before he started doing anything. Jack liked it when Brock was rough with him, but not cruel, and it was easy to overdo it. He knew some guys were into pain and humiliation, but not Jack, and Brock was always careful not to cross any lines.

"Good boy," he murmured.

Jack gasped and pushed his fingers deeper in.

"You all ready there?"

Jack nodded, so Brock stood up and walked behind him. He climbed onto the bed and settled himself between Jack's knees.

"Out," he ordered when a simple pat on his hand brought no results, and Jack pulled his fingers out with a squelch. "Lube."

Jack moaned in protest.

"Jack," Brock warned, so Jack reached for the lube he left on the pillow behind his head and handed it to him.

Brock slicked himself up and pushed the head in, Jack hissing in a breath as he did. He had stretched himself with three fingers, but it still wasn't enough for Brock to slip in all at once without making it burn, so he slowly fucked himself inside. When he was finally buried up to the hilt, he folded himself down over Jack, bracketing his head in with his hands.

"Who do you belong to?" he murmured just above the side of his face. Jack’s eyes were screwed shut tight, his mouth fallen open, and his white-knuckled hands twisted into the sheets.

"Jack?" Brock prompted when he didn't receive an answer.

Jack opened his eyes to gaze up at him, his pupils blown. "You," he breathed.

"That's right."

Brock pulled out and slammed back in, forcing a moan out of Jack's throat.

"That what you wanted?" he rasped against his ear. "That what you were being such a goddamn bitch about?"

"Yes, please," Jack replied, and Brock rewarded him with another thrust of his hips.

They fell into a slow, shallow rhythm, Brock reluctant to give Jack exactly what he wanted straight away despite craving the same thing. He drank in the desperate sounds Jack was making, the sight of him flushed and sweaty, reduced to a quivering mess under him. He licked a stripe up his neck, feeling his pulse race beneath his tongue.

"I should fucking mark you up," he rasped into his ear again, "so you don't forget again. I should make it big and obvious, so everyone who fucking looks at you will know. Yeah?"

Jack moaned, but it didn't count for an answer, so Brock grabbed his hair and pulled, forcing him to raise his head and look at him again. His eyes looked distant, his frown lost and confused, so Brock repeated helpfully, "Should I leave a big fat mark on you, Jack?"

He could see him struggle to gather his wits enough to croak, "Not obvious." He let go of his hair, and Jack's head dropped onto the pillow.

They both moaned simultaneously when Brock buried his teeth in the joint between Jack's neck and shoulder, and Brock couldn't help himself but to thrust harder as he sucked the flesh in, Jack jerking his hips back to meet him. Brock was feeling he was coming close when suddenly something cold, wet and _rubbery_ touched his leg, sending chills crawling up his spine. Trying not to fall out of his rhythm, full of bad feelings, he looked over his shoulder at the thing.

Bob was slowly crawling up his leg.

With sweat running down his back, Brock tried to peel the strong suction caps off his skin one-handed, the other hand still holding Jack. He kept trying to fuck him, hoping Jack wouldn't find out what was going on, but he kept faltering. To make matters worse, Bob crawled high enough to wrap his tentacles around Jack's leg as well. Jack moaned in surprise.

"What's that?" he asked, and when Brock didn't answer—because there wasn't a good answer for that, really—he propped himself up on his elbows and turned his head to look.

Brock thought it must have looked hilarious, him naked, balls deep in Jack and fighting off a cuddly octopus with one hand. But Jack wasn't laughing.

"For fuck's sake!" He scrambled away—or tried to, but Bob was still holding his leg tightly, and he slumped on the sheets. "Get that thing off me!"

"I'm trying!"

Now with both hands, Brock managed to unstick the tentacles from Jack's body. As soon as he was free, Jack kicked Brock off the bed. Brock regained his balance.

"Okay, I know it—"

Jack didn't let him finish. He shoved Brock out of the bedroom and slammed the door into his face. Brock heard the lock turn. He sighed.

"Jack," he called gently. No response. "I'm sorry, okay? I'll buy him an aquarium tomorrow, I swear."

He stood at the door for another while, naked, still hard, and with an armful of tentacles, listening in for any sounds.

"Are you okay?" he tried again, but Jack really wasn't keen on talking to him. "I guess I'm sleeping on the couch then," he muttered to himself, and, slipping on the wet floor, he went to the bathroom.

He put Bob back in the bathtub, washed himself, and still naked since all his clean clothes were in the bedroom, he went to the living room. He wrapped himself in a throw blanket and settled on the couch. Sometime later, a high-pitched whine reminded him of Nemo and their cold dinner. He let the dog out, divided the beef into two portions, heated them up in the microwave and, carrying one, returned to the bedroom. He knocked.

"I brought you dinner."

There was no reaction, so Brock left the bowl at the door. As soon as he walked away, Nemo ran to it and started munching away.

"Your dog's eating your dinner," Brock said with no hope he'd actually get an answer this time. He sat down in the living room again with his dinner and started eating. It was lukewarm and chewy.

 

*

 

Jack still wasn't talking to him in the morning, but at least he left the bedroom and ate something. When Brock tried to talk to him, he put on his shoes and went out to walk Nemo, slamming the door behind himself.

Brock got dressed, drank a cup of coffee and waited around for a few minutes, but it seemed that Jack took a longer route, so he left and drove to a pet shop to buy that stupid aquarium. He chose the biggest one there was, wondering where to even put it and coming up empty. Well, there was always the floor. Maybe Nemo would fall inside, and Bob would strangle and eat him.

Indulging himself in fantasies of losing his unwanted pet, he picked up every toy available for Bob to play and asked about a padlock for the aquarium. They didn't need another cockblocking incident.

Brock was surprised how long it took to collect everything; it was already lunchtime when he was coming home. He made a stop at Jack's favorite coffee kiosk to surprise him with something nice. He was hoping that once Bob was safely locked away, and Jack had a donut and that atrocious caramel coffee he drank, he'd no longer be mad.

Brock realized he'd have to make two tours to carry everything inside, so at first he only took the coffee and the brown paper bag with the donut. He somehow managed to hold both in one hand as he unlocked the door with the other, wondering what Jack was up to, and if he was home at all.

"Jack?!" he called out, trying to toe his sneakers off, "I'm—" he trailed off at the sight of an unfamiliar pair of shoes left at the shoe cabinet. He heard footsteps and looked up. A bad feeling crept up on him when Jack exited the kitchen wearing nothing but his jeans, but his stomach truly sank when he was followed by Steve who was in a similar state of undress.

The three of them stood silently in the hall for a few seconds, each with some level of discomfort visible in their stances. Brock was looking from Jack to Steve and back, noting the bottles of beer they were holding—at noon!—and Jack, catching up on what Brock was thinking, took a step towards him.

"We were just—"

Brock realized he wasn't in the mood for listening to excuses, no matter what was really happening between the two of them. He spun on his heel and marched out of the apartment, dropping his hands and spilling coffee on the ground. He heard Jack call after him, but he didn't turn around. He walked out of the block and threw the half-full cup away. The bag with the donut he dropped on the passenger seat of his car. He managed to get inside and close the door right before Jack slammed his palms against it; he banged at the window, yelling Brock's name and calling him a dramatic bitch, but Brock started up the engine and drove away.

His mind was blank as he drove, and he wasn't sure where exactly he was going. He turned up the volume and some rock song blasted from the speakers, but he was too distant to pay much attention to it. Before he knew it, he was leaving the city behind and speeding the highway until he began to run out of gas and was forced to stop at the station. There he slowed down a bit; he filled the tank and parked at the nearby stop to have a cup of coffee and eat Jack's donut.

He sighed loudly as he sat back in the driver's seat and unclenched his teeth, only then realizing how sore his jaw was. Chewing the donut helped a little, but his fingers tapping the paper cup nervously clued him in on how anxious he still was, and he decided the coffee wasn't a good idea after all, so he placed it in the cup holder.

In his head, he was back at his apartment, staring at Jack and Steve. Fuck, maybe he had overreacted—it wasn't like he walked in on them in bed. But why the hell was some strange guy shirtless in his apartment? Jack liked Steve, of course he did. Why wouldn't he? There was nothing not to like. And it seemed Steve liked Jack, too, if how he was always addressing him with gentle affection was any indication. And Brock couldn't fucking blame him because Jack was amazing.

He sighed again and picked up his phone. There were two missed calls from Jack. It had been a few hours since Brock bolted, so he was bound to start worrying. Or maybe he was just angry; Brock could never foresee how Jack would react to things.

The screen lit up again with Jack's name on it, so Brock swiped the green button. "Yeah."

Jack didn't respond at first; he must have been surprised Brock picked up at all. "Brock."

"Yeah, it's me."

"Okay, listen," Jack started, his words nervously hurried, "I don't know what you're thinking or why you'd be thinking anything at all—no, okay, I do—listen." He cut himself off, and Brock heard him take a shuddering breath before he started again. "I left my t-shirt at Steve's last night, remember? He came over to bring it back, and then he asked to see the octopus because he thought I was kidding him. It splashed us both with water and I offered him beer while we waited for his t-shirt to dry. That was all that happened."

Brock sat still, mulling it all over.

"Brock?"

"Yeah, I hear ya." He sighed and sat straighter in his seat. "I want to believe you, but for the record, it didn't look fucking innocent."

"I know," Jack said quietly. "Come back?"

Brock looked out the window at the cars speeding by; he didn't even know where the fuck he was. "Yeah. That will take a while though." He listened to the silence on Jack's side for a moment. "I ate your donut."

"You bought me a donut?" Brock wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a smile in Jack's voice.

"Yeah, and that sweet coffee. I threw it away."

"That's... well. I learned my lesson," Jack deadpanned.

Brock couldn't help but smile at that, too. "I bought that aquarium, too," he added in a much gentler voice.

"That's... good. Brock—"

"With a padlock."

"I'm—"

"And toys." He didn't continue, but it seemed that Jack resigned from voicing whatever it was he had wanted to say.

"So when will you be home?" he asked finally, his voice strained no matter how casual he tried to make it sound.

"Few hours, I think. I," Brock snorted at his own stupidity, "I kinda just got in the car and drove, I'm in the middle of nowhere."

Jack sighed. "Drama queen."

"The possibility of losing you made me lose my mind a little," Brock said in an unusual moment of openness. Jack must have been rendered speechless at that, because he stayed silent, and, feeling anxiety creep up on him again, Brock promised he was driving back home and ended the call.

 

*

 

Jack was sitting alone in the dark when Brock entered the apartment carrying the aquarium and with a shopping bag with other supplies hanging from his wrist. He leaped to his feet when he saw him and hurriedly gathered three empty beer bottles he must have drunk while waiting for Brock to make place on the coffee table. When Brock set the huge box down, Jack eagerly took the shopping bag from him just to falter when he didn't know what to do with it, and eventually placed it on the top of the box. Then they froze in their spots, staring at each other, the awkward tension thick between them. Brock was the first to disturb the silence.

"Listen..." He swallowed thickly. "If you like Steve, I get it... But I'd rather you just told me instead of sneaking behind my back."

Jack was shaking his head before Brock finished the sentence. "No, Brock. None of that." He looked around for a place he could leave the bottles at before sighing exasperatedly and just dropping them on the couch. Then he reduced the distance between them and pulled Brock into an embrace, pressing his head against his chest, his fingers tangling into his hair. Brock brought his arms up to wrap around his waist without a second thought. "I don't like Steve, I like you."

Brock found himself smiling faintly. "An old thing like me?"

"Old things are better. Music, movies, fashion, antiques, wine... you, too."

Brock pinched his side for that, but it took a huge weight off his shoulders. Jack sighed.

"It wasn't right to make you jealous. I'm sorry."

Brock looked up, resting his chin against Jack's breastbone. "Well, I ain't a saint either. But next time just tell me when you're feeling neglected."

"I didn't feel neglected," Jack mumbled, avoiding Brock's gaze, and louder he added, "Just don't put any more weird things in our bathtub and we're good."

Brock's lips stretched in a grin. "Speaking of, there's something we gotta finish after we were so rudely interrupted..." And in case he didn't make himself clear enough, he slid his hand down to grab at Jack's ass.

Jack slapped his hand away. "Put the octopus where it belongs and we'll see about that." Then he frowned, squinting at something behind Brock's back. "I think Nemo's pissing on the floor."

Brock groaned and banged his forehead against Jack's chest. He stayed there for a moment before reluctantly pulling away. "Let's take a proper care of our pets, then."

"So you're not gonna kick him out?" Jack asked with a smirk, already on his way to get a mop.

"Well," Brock drawled, shrugging, "I gotta take under consideration that not all the puddles were your pup's fault."

He watched Jack mop the floor for a moment before turning around with a sigh to unpack the aquarium.

**Author's Note:**

> Jealous Jack is life, but recently I've been wanting to explore Brock being jealous for once.
> 
> I usually stick to the default 10 years gap between them, but here it's about 20 years.


End file.
